


liquid courage

by alexcantwrite



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: < tw, (but not really), Aftermath, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Drinking, M/M, Post-Game(s), Struggle, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unrequited Love, after noct's death, over the limit of mom is scared, prompto can't take it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-10
Updated: 2018-05-10
Packaged: 2019-05-04 21:21:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14601969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexcantwrite/pseuds/alexcantwrite
Summary: Prompto, 2 whole years after the Citadel, is still struggling to cope with Noctis' death. Thankfully, the gods are willing to help him get his last message across.





	liquid courage

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Missrockstars77](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Missrockstars77/gifts).



> okay so disclaimer, i’ve never been totally Wasted Drunk™ in my life, only Fun Drunk™, so don’t come at me if there is mis-in-for-ma-tion (i.e. BuT WhEn YoU’Re THiS DRuNk YoU pAsS OuT iMMeDiateLy aND aNd AnD YoU sTArt pUKinG yOUr GutS OuT iT’s Not juSt-) aLSO, if you don’t like rum then don’t read, you’ll be sick. (double also: if you don’t like rum what the hell are you doing) BUT in my vast research, (literally one website) there’s this rum and it looks fucking delicious - it’s nearly 70% alcohol. gettin’ a basis for why i chose what i chose for this fic? good, okay, glad we understand each other.

 

Prompto sighed as he poured another helping of rum into his glass. He’d lost count of how many he’d had tonight, but judging by the weight of the bottle (or lack thereof), he would assume it was quite a few.

 

It was out of habit now, more than anything. His life had suddenly hit a rut since the darkness had vanished, two years ago, thanks to Noctis. It was always the same routine: stop by Wiz’s to see if he needed help. (in the years just after Noct’s disappearance with the Crystal, Prompto had agreed to help the man with the chocobos. He figured that if he couldn’t save  _ everyone,  _ he at least wanted to protect the place that held so many memories.) Then, sometimes at night, Gladio or Ignis would call on him to have a night out. They had grown apart recently, now with so many things they had, what with Gladiolus being an Amicitia, sworn protector of the now non-existent King of Lucis, and Ignis, although blind, still insisting on being of aid to the people who previously lived inside the Crown City.

 

All three of them had agreed to keep in touch, not to let the bond between them break even after Noctis was gone, but Prompto was more annoyed at the fact that it  _ wasn’t  _ an empty promise. Each time he saw their faces, it  _ hurt _ . The memories of the time the four of them had shared had left an open, festering wound in Prom’s heart, one that seemed to grow every time he reminisced about the past, and never heal. 

 

However, if Prompto hadn’t made plans with anyone previously, had nobody to  _ hide himself from,  _ it usually ended in him wandering to the same market in the center of Lestallum, and buying the cheapest bottle they had to offer, before proceeding to drown himself in it. 

 

It was his secret, one more humiliating and dehumanizing to him now, even more than the fiasco with his Magitek barcode had been. Only with this time, there was no Noctis to say it was okay. It was probably  _ because  _ Noctis wasn’t there that led him to smother himself in sweet, sweet poison every night, sometimes until dawn, if it hadn’t knocked him out before then. 

 

If not for the bitter liquid, Prompto would never sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, he was there, in the throne room, the first light of the Sun shining through the gaping hole in the side, left from the attack on the Citadel. The Sun, a symbol of Noct succeeding in his calling. That damned Sun, spilling a spotlight on the King’s dead body as if to taunt the three friends. His own father’s sword had been protruding out of his chest, still sticky with blood. Prompto remembered falling to his knees, not particularly registering grief but still feeling tears spill down his cheeks. Gladio, despite always being able to stifle himself, couldn’t remain stolid, either. His hand was clapped over his mouth, as if hiding a scream behind it. He’d taken a deep breath before climbing the cracked stairs to the throne, where Noct hung, pinned to his own birth rite. Gladio himself had been the one to free him, pulling the sword from the man’s body with more strength than he felt like he had. Once free, Noctis had collapsed into the man’s ams. Limp and, well, dead. That was when Prompto lost it, not able to find anymore comfort in Ignis’ steady hand on his shoulder than it would have been if he’d just sent a blade into him. Noct’s face, the lack of emotion on his face, as Gladio carried him out of the room on his back, had sent ripples through Prompto’s body. 

 

So instead, he drank it away, until he was incoherent. It felt good to drink, to let his emotions be consumed by the bottle instead of letting them consume him. Anything was better than seeing that day repeat in his brain. It was much better, he thought, to procrastinate those emotions until the next morning.

 

The  _ mornings _ . Filled with an indescribably painful, throbbing headache—some so excruciating he couldn’t physically bear to lift himself out of bed—and a morning mood that would have beat the prince just by the sheer levels of bitterness. The soft morning light that once spilled from his window and into his bedroom, prodding Prompto awake with its gentle hands, had turned to claws, ripping at his eyes and shaking him from a short-lived slumber. It was his punishment, he had decided, for his shortcomings. There was always a chronic need to curse himself for feeling so obligated to start keeping promises after his failure to do so with Noctis, because fighting a hangover whilst also being  _ Prompto _ was one of the most difficult tasks known to man, it was a wonder he hadn’t had an intervention yet. Ignis was usually so perceptive, even without his sight, always knowing that something wasn’t right in their tone of voice and confronting it. And Gladio, how could he have never noticed? He might be mostly muscle, but that didn’t mean he was stupid. Prompto thought vaguely, wondering if the two  _ did  _ in fact know something was wrong with him, but were keeping it to themselves as they tended to do more and more. 

 

Rubbing at his scraggly goatee, the man couldn’t fight a sense of internal dread and humiliation at the fact that his friends were well aware of his increasingly steep decline. He poured himself another tall one, determined to go numb. 

 

Prompto took swig of liquid fire from his glass and squinted at the dim Lestallum lights through the small window of his apartment. Six knew what time it was; he couldn’t be bothered to care. All he wanted to do was  _ stop feeling,  _ and the only way to shut his brain up was the punishing effects of alcohol; Prompto could no longer sleep without it. His head would fill with self-made promises that he’d never gone through with. Closing his eyes had meant reliving painful memories for months.  _ Noctis,  _ his subconscious mind would shout in the dead of night,  _ you let Noctis down.  _ For what it was, Prompto never knew, but his brain had somehow convinced him that whatever happened to his friend was  _ his  _ fault. Like, he could’ve done something to prevent the tragedy. Besides, he never did get to tell Noct how he felt before he was  _ gone for good.  _ Ridiculous scenarios haunted his mind, making up ways that would convince Noct to stay with him, like the notion that Prompto had feelings for the boy would change the fact that he was  _ explicitly Chosen by the gods at birth to give his life for the sake of the world.  _ It had been two whole years, and yet he couldn’t bring himself to accept that fact.      

 

Unwelcome tears pricked the back of the blond boy’s glazed over eyes. More than anything it was a surprise; he hadn’t cried in so long, he was beginning to think he’d used up the rest of his tears back before, during the first weeks. (Back then, the shock, even though he’d had ten whole years to prepare for it, was more than Prompto could bear to take. He’d gone almost a month without any contact from anyone, until Gladio had come to forcibly bust the door in to check if the man was even still alive.) But now, swiping at his eyes, Prompto abandoned his glass for the bottle, twisting the lid off and getting about five gulps down before the bittersweet tang seared the back of his throat. The feeling of grief that had threatened to overwhelm him just seconds before had dialed back almost instantly, and Prompto found himself sinking further into the wooden chair he was in. A dreaded wave of nausea came over him, and he almost welcomed it for the promise of a viable excuse not to leave his house for a few days. 

 

Prompto had just raised the bottle to his lips again when there was a tap at his door. Not really a tap, more like a scratching sound. He ran a hand through his unwashed hair, intent on ignoring the sound, figuring it was a wild animal or small daemon that would eventually go away, when it came again, marginally more urgent this time. Annoyed, he threw the nearly-empty bottle of rum onto the table, and made the arduous attempt to stand in his wasted state, the squeeze in his gut making him reel slightly. 

 

More scratching. Prompto stumbled, leaning on the wall, almost breaking out in a sweat from the exertion of moving. He made his way to the door, moving as if he was wading through honey, like a kid trying to walk in a straight line after spinning himself dizzy. 

 

When he did eventually make it to his front door, he gripped the handle like a lifeline, and fell into the door, four parts relief from his trek, one part to get the door open. That was what was supposed to happen, but it didn’t open. Instead, his cheek just collided with the old wood. He pushed it with his shoulder, jamming the knob in his fist. Several attempts to pry the door open later (to no avail), Prompto decided he was trapped in his own home because of the the door he didn’t remember locking. Panickedly, he swore and stumbled back onto the ground despite his attempt to hold onto the door handle like a strong hand. The door made a dangerous sounding scrunch and finally opened  _ towards _ him, stopping only when it smacked against his foot.  _ Oh yeah.  _ He swore again, this time while massaging his bruised tailbone. Prompto looked up lazily, expecting to find something,—well, he didn’t really know what he was expecting to find—but it certainly wasn’t the black and brown fluff and beady eyes that was Umbra.

 

"'Mbra?" Prompto slurred, eyes glazing over dark puffs of fur. The dog seemed to take that as his cue to enter and trotted inside the man's house.    
  
Umbra padded up determinedly to Prompto and nudged his soft head under one palm. As Prom obliged, scratching the dog's ear absently, he noticed the green scarf wrapped around Umbra's neck. He knew that fabric, right down to the swirling pattern threaded into it. And that wasn't the worst part; he knew what it held.    
  
Prompto peeled back the emerald fabric to reveal a faded red notebook. His throat caught, and he uneasily tried to swallow the lump of lead that had settled into it. Before he could stop himself, his fingers were curling around the book and holding it to his chest like—

 

Like he was holding onto Noctis himself. 

 

Prompto felt the pressure in his chest build even more at the thought, he let out a trembling sob to relieve the constraint. He blinked, trying to collect himself, and flipped the cover of the notebook open to the first page. There was a Sylleblossom pressed to the page and held there by a gold stamp, the flower native to Tenebrae. It was no longer the sapphire blue that Prompto had remembered from them, instead, the tips were flaky and dark, the petals withered in on themselves, showing the true age of a twelve year strain. 

 

He shouldn’t read it. He  _ knew  _ he shouldn’t. It was against his morals to ruin the sanctity of what the book contained. But his thumb still moved the page over, revealing one of many fond messages sent by Noctis himself,  _ “Finally going to see you after all these years.”  _ and the one Lunafreya had sent back,  _ “My prayers are with you, Noctis.”  _

 

Prompto could physically feel his heart tearing with each beat. This was a document of what Noctis and Luna had been looking forward to for so long. Altissia was supposed to be the happiest time of their lives, but the two of them never got to meet under the perfect setting, never got to hold onto each other with their eyes, so much as with their hands. Everything had happened so  _ fast.  _ And well… Lunafreya was gone before she had gotten to say anything to him. Prompto knew what she had felt for Noctis. To be in love with your best friend was the best feeling in the world; Prompto could only imagine how that feeling would be magnified if his love wasn’t unrequited. 

 

Flipping through, it was coming back to him the look on the Prince’s face when Umbra had come up to him, full of excitement despite his efforts to keep a stoic expression. He remembered the way the man’s shoulders seemed to relax when he got her message, as if just seeing a message from her had released all the built up tension he had felt prior. It was almost  _ magical _ the way the book could change the Prince’s mood; the natural fondness they felt for each other that did nothing but make Prom sickeningly envious all these years. However, it wasn’t a response Prompto hadn’t experienced before, when Noctis had ever addressed him directly, the boy was always met with huge moths flapping in his insides and a face full of heat, and he never knew why. 

 

When Prompto had reached the end of the lovers’ messages, he found that over half of the book was still empty, as if waiting to be filled. If not for their toil, the two would probably have kept the book as a symbol of their infatuation. But now, without either of the two having a physical form to complete the story, they were almost calling to him, as gently as the Oracle’s hands when cleansing the citizens of Eos from blight. Prompto swallowed the bitter taste in his mouth, glancing over at Umbra, who had curled up next to the boy’s bed, looking at him expectantly. Distantly, the blond wondered if this was a sign from the Gods or the like, deciding it was time to take pity on him and let him finally find peace in getting his message to Noctis. 

 

Regardless, Prompto let himself sink into the tiny desk chair he had previously been wasting himself in, pushed the empty bottle of rum to the side with the back of his hand, and rummaged through his desk drawer for something to write with. 

 

Even still, with all of the woes littering his brain, he couldn’t find the words to start. The back of his subconscious was telling him that this guesswork of reasoning for _why_ Umbra had come to him, and just _who_ would actually be reading his desperate cries for help was completely and utterly ridiculous. He should probably have quit while he was ahead, because once he started, he wouldn’t be able to stop, and the words would pour out of him quicker than Prompto had poured rum into his glass. But if _Noct_ was actually going to see this letter, Prompto didn’t want his friend’s last memory of him to portray him as the drunk fuck-up he’d turned into. He already humiliated himself as it was. 

 

But instead of listening to his mind, which he was prone to doing, he scribbled out an “ _ I guess,”  _ onto the page. Which, in theory, would’ve been just as awkward as he’d been in years prior. That single phrase that had he’d accustomed to his tongue years before was like a spark at a pile of dry leaves. His pen whisked across the paper almost too fast to form a letter before he was onto the next one, barely legible. It didn’t help that his knuckles were still bruised from his last blackout either; his grip on the pencil was nowhere near firm enough to have consistent writing. Prompto was surprised when warm drops puddled onto his hand; he hadn’t even realized that he was crying before a waterfall was coming down his cheeks. He wiped them away hastily like he was embarrassed that they were even there, but deep down, it felt extremely liberating to allow himself to feel emotions again. Maybe, just maybe, this notebook  _ was  _ magical, after all. 

 

~

 

By the time he had finally finished, Prompto’d lost count of how many of pages he’d ended up using, but he had to assume it was a lot, considering he had made his way to the back cover of the book. The boy’s tears had just started to seep into the words on the page when he finally scribbled his name at the bottom. Not that he needed to; it was only going to be read by himself (and possibly Noctis), but his brain was too far gone to care as he marked out more of his pathetic ramblings out of the letter, hoping that since he could no longer read it, Noct wouldn’t be able to either. 

 

The boy settled back into his seat and looked out the window to see the protruding star that was the Sun, making its way around the edges of the Meteor. The glimmer burned his eyes; Prompto glared at it bitterly, uselessly cursing it for being the reason he ended up like this. Every sunrise was just as painful as the first one. This one was no exception, and Prompto couldn’t help but be teetering over the edge of a breakdown again, even after his attempts to stifle himself. He hastily shoved thin, grey curtains over the painful view, wincing as he did the same to draw the tears back behind his eyes where they belonged. Prompto took great care to press his pen perfectly into the crease in the notebook, marking his place and closing it gingerly. 

 

Meanwhile, Umbra got up from his place on the floor and padded towards the broken man. He nudged his nose under the boy’s hand, which earned a short startle from Prompto. The dog just turned back towards the messy mound that Prompto called his bed, coaxing the boy to get some well-deserved sleep. At first, Prompto’s face wrote nothing but confusion, two fisheyed globes swimming from the dog to his mattress. Realization crashed into him rather forcefully, but he decided the dog was right. He needed sleep. It took the better part of a minute for the blond to finally pull himself up without reeling, but Umbra was patient, and even let Prompto hold onto his fur to keep his balance. It took five gut-wrenching steps before Prompto flopped into his bed, not bothering to undress or even remove his boots. The boy was asleep before his head even hit the pillow. Umbra took it upon himself to climb on the bed too, curling up next to the sleeping Prompto to provide warmth. It had been a long night for him. Now all he had to do was sit back and let the Astrals take over. 

**Author's Note:**

> oof, my poor baby boy. well, there is a second part to this fic, so stay tuned.


End file.
